


Andromaque

by AnyaVolkova



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Female Friendship, Femslash, Lesbian Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-08-10 22:02:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7862812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnyaVolkova/pseuds/AnyaVolkova
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lena remembers. Widowmaker tries to forget.</p><p>Widowtracer, some adult content. Oneshot (no pun intended).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Andromaque

What was beauty? True beauty, the kind that can’t be fully communicated in photos or stories but is experienced, over and over, through acts of involuntary elegance.

Lena pondered it as she pored over the contours in Amélie’s face, lit in apricot by the poor room lights, studying her lips as they read aloud in an unfamiliar tongue.

“… _est passionnément amoureux, et que ses amis les plus intimes_ …”

How badly Lena wanted those lips to be on hers. But in the moment, she had to be content to admire Amélie from afar.

Beauty was what Lena saw in Amélie.

It began as an infatuation on the older, freshly married woman Lena would catch a glimpse of while stationed at Overwatch’s Gibraltar base. Amélie arrived on the base to pick up her new husband Gerard after work each evening with a distinct handmade dish, wrapped in gorgeous cloth enveloping every contour of the delicious package. And the food looked good, too.

The crush grew into something more as Lena, tirelessly determined to prove herself as Overwatch’s finest pilot and worthy of testing the Slipstream, became a full-time resident of on-base hangar, sleeping in one of its upper level former control rooms repurposed into very cramped living quarters. What it lacked in space, the upper level made up for in having a patchwork library, functioning on a “take one, leave one” system of books the soldiers brought from home. It attracted the quiet types.

A certain woman with a ponytail that blended in with the evening dusk behind her, donned in long leather boots running up her crossed legs, happened to be passing the evening reading _La Princesse de Clèves_ in said library when a certain bleary-eyed aeronaut in a bomber jacket wandered in.

The door to the library barged open.

“Mind if I sit?” Lena didn’t wait for an answer before plopping into the chair next to Amélie, not realizing this would be the first thing she actually said to her. “I think I’ve gone and lost my room key again.”

Amélie cocked an eyebrow at the sight: Was _this_ was the pilot she had heard so much about, worthy of being the first to test their teleporting flyer prototype? It couldn’t be.

“I’ve seen you around. You’re Gerard’s missus, yeah? Lena Oxton,” the disheveled young woman flashed a grin and extended out her hand.

It was.

“Amélie Lacroix,” she replied, still getting used to how Gerard’s last name sounded after hers. She took Lena’s hand politely to find a violent handshake awaited her.

 _Amélie, Amélie, Amélie_. The handshake continued.

 _Even her name is_ _pretty_ , thought Lena, drunken and vacant from a day spent half upside-down for Slipstream conditioning purposes. Amélie pulled back gracefully from the too-long handshake and smirked at the sight.

Although never bookish besides when flight school forced her to be, Lena had always been a social butterfly—she gathered her thoughts, and then was polite enough to ask Amélie what book she was reading (and Amélie pronouncing the title in her native patois was enough to make Lena’s breath hitch in her throat), what she thought of the weather lately, if she had any plans for the weekend, and if not, maybe she could come over and spend the night in Lena’s one-bed dorm…

She made a point not to vocalize that last one.

 “It sounds like you know Gerard,” Amélie spoke, unknowingly interrupting Lena’s delusions. “We’d be happy to have you join us for lunch sometime. It would be an honor to have the company of Overwatch’s elite pilot after all.”

Lena couldn’t stop the burning heat that crawled up her neck, redness spreading underneath the freckles on her cheeks. Damn this gorgeous, cordial woman.

“I’d be honored to join you, Mrs. Lac—” she shifted back in her seat, shaking loose an object that hit the ground with a forceful clatter. Both women’s eyes followed the sound.

Amélie raised an eyebrow, “That wouldn’t happen to be your…?”

“Oh blimey, this is embarrassing.”

Collecting the room key and what little dignity she had left, Lena pivoted towards the door, “Well, I’d best be off then. I wouldn’t be very good company under the influence of sleep deprivation.” She smiled and gave Amélie a casual salute goodbye.

Amélie chuckled, “Good night, _chérie_.”

-

For Overwatch agents, meals were spent in the nearby mess hall, clamoring with soldiers of every creed, packing in bread and beer as they shared war stories and argued over politics. There was never a moment quiet enough to hear yourself think, but over time Lena knew to ask when Gerard would invite his wife for lunch, and Lena often didn’t use her head in Amélie’s presence anyway.

Not a member of Overwatch herself but living on the base, the French newlywed alternated cuisine from home and international favorites for her party of three: oysters one day, burgers the next. Lena welcomed anything other than the provided rations with a voracious appetite, and knowing the chef was Amélie only contributed to making the food more delicious.

“No chip sarnies today, then?” Lena joked, the married couple joining her at the table.

“Not quite, but this one might remind you of home too,” Amélie unwrapped a plate of beer-battered cod and thick-cut chips with a small vinegar bottle to the side.

Lena’s eyes lit up, “No way!” She grinned at Amélie and back at the plate in disbelief. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had some decent fish and chips?”

Amélie giggled—this was exactly the kind of childlike reaction she wanted to get out of Lena, “Too long, it seems.”

Amélie had become something of a mentor to Lena through their frequent lunch conversations. Not on the art of flying or how to fire a gun, but on the more mundane, human parts of life.

In moments when Gerard would be called away early and the young women were left behind with half-finished plates, Amélie would use the opportunity to share stories, both from books and from the heart, to her junior. Lena was absolutely fascinated by the extent of her knowledge. Amélie was partial to French classics, and Lena loved listening to her talk about Racine’s works in particular.

“I’ve been rereading this one lately,” Amélie says, pulling a small, beaten-up book out of her bag, “This is actually the same copy I had when I was in school.”

“It looks… well-loved,” Lena eyed a corner that looked like it had bit bitten off. She received a swift tap on the head in response.

“Do you think _I_ did that?!” Amélie laughed as she said it, processing the subtle accusation by Lena of her being a book-nibbler, and Lena grinned even wider.

“I dunno, maybe you got hungry! I wasn’t going to judge,” came Lena’s wiseass response as she leaned back in her seat.

Amélie narrowed her eyes, smiling, “I take better care of my things than that, _mon petit chou_.”

Lena let out a last chuckle and then and looked attentively to Amélie, who cleared her throat in response and explained the premise of the book as best as she could remember. She liked to talk with gestures, especially when retelling stories, which Lena found charming and cute. Hanging onto every word, she let the older woman finish before she spoke.

 “So instead of a love triangle, it’s more like a love pentagon,” Lena quipped in summary.

Amélie’s brow furrowed, thinking, “Something like that,” and then grinned, relaxing her expression as she came to a conclusion, “There wasn’t as much to do back then.”

Lena laughed.

Love, by Racine’s definition, Amélie explained, closely resembled a psychological disorder, with alternating moods of calm and crisis. Lena found herself intoxicated with the sound of the French woman’s voice as she quoted the book in her hands: “ _Ne puis-je savoir si j'aime, ou si je haïs?_ ”

_“Can I know if I loved or if I hated?”_

-

It wasn’t uncommon for Lena to find herself up until the wee hours, despite needing to wake up at 5 a.m., waiting in her dorm room cot until she heard the last set of footsteps outside her door fade out into the distant stairwell and finally out of earshot. Away from home and absorbed in her career from the moment she left flight school, Lena never allowed herself the time to get to know any girls in the way she’d like… biblically, preferably.

But the stillness and calm of the night allowed Lena one respite: in her fantasies—her delusions—she could have whoever she wanted. Even if, in real life, they happened to be married.

Hugging a cool pillow over her mouth—she didn’t want to think about what could happen to her pilot status if she was heard—Lena, wearing just a tank top and underwear, would touch herself, first in light, teasing strokes up her thighs and then to the valley where her thigh connected to her pelvis.

Falling for Amélie happened so naturally, and Lena fell so hard, she couldn’t remember what it felt like before she did. The way Amélie maintained so much poise, and the way she graciously took in Lena as her eager student… Lena’s only source of anguish was that Gerard had gotten to her first. But maybe the fact that Amélie was unattainable just made the situation all the more exhilarating.

Lena shifted her panties down, and her usual reverie returned: Amélie’s gorgeous figure, radiant in the light of the moon, on top of Lena in her bed, her long hair let down so that silky violet locks could fall onto Lena’s skin. Her imagination took off, and the completely nude French woman straddling her seemed all the more real.

_Lena buried herself in Amélie’s neck and took in her scent, a mix of her lavender shampoo and perfume, kissing the curves of her collarbone gently and trailing down with her lips, running her hands down the small of Amélie’s back. The natural coolness of Amélie’s skin contrasted Lena’s warm, calloused hands as she held the woman on top of her longingly, her kisses continuing downwards as she admired Amélie’s flawless frame in the way she had always wanted to._

Returning to reality briefly, Lena admitted to herself that she had never seen this much of Amélie, however she had no trouble imagining her body—muscular and fit yet curvaceous and feminine… and so intoxicating.

_When Lena’s lips arrived at Amélie’s full breasts, she let her tongue outline and flick the top’s already erect nipples. Amélie’s head fell into Lena’s shoulder, not expecting the younger woman’s teasing moves, and she dug her nails into Lena’s back with a groan._

_The sound made Lena become conscious of the heat growing in the pit of her stomach, begging her to do something more. But before she could take action on it, Amélie purred into Lena’s ear—heated and crimson from a spreading blush—seductively mumbling something Lena didn’t understand. The corners of Lena’s mouth turned up with contentment._

Back in reality, Lena inhaled a gasp, arching her back, and found her fingers tracing up and down her moist slit. What she wouldn’t give to have Amélie’s hot breath on her ear.

_As Amélie lifted her head up from the embrace, Lena with half-lidded eyes and a mouth agape with lust begged for the older woman’s tongue to meet hers. Amélie smirked and reciprocated, an ecstatic Lena’s hands running through her hair. The smaller woman clutched Amélie’s head fervently, effectively shoving her tongue further in._

_The heavenly plumpness of Amélie’s lips pushing against hers, while at the same time getting to taste the older, married woman from the inside, this forbidden fruit… it was absolutely overwhelming to Lena. She couldn’t help a guttural moan from escaping into Amélie’s mouth, “Mmmm...”_

Lena bit the pillow, her middle finger finding its way inside her, followed shortly after by her ring finger. How badly she longed for the real Amélie to walk in at this moment.

_Lena pulled back from the kiss breathlessly and moved a hand to rest on Amélie’s icy cheek. Two almond-shaped amber eyes met Lena’s gaze, scrunched into a endearing expression—a look Lena was no stranger to. The glistening of the girls’ saliva messily painted on Amélie’s lips and chin was new, though. But Lena knew the hungry heat between her legs wouldn’t let her admire the view for too long._

_Taking charge, Lena moved a leg up and grabbed Amélie’s hips. She forced the French woman down onto her, pushing Amélie’s groin into one of her toned thighs. Wanting some release of her own, Amélie began grinding against her, hips gyrating in a slow and seductive rhythm, her inviting eyes fixed on Lena’s._

_The younger woman’s breath hitched, and determined not to let Amélie have the upper hand, she let her grip wander downward, finally settling on grabbing two handfuls of Amélie’s perfect ass. She pulled it and the rest of Amélie’s body harder against her with each thrust, and Amélie threw her head forward with a gasp, Lena smiling at the small victory. The sensation of the older woman’s bare sex grinding against her, combined with the fresh taste of Amélie on her lips was a power trip that made Lena’s head spin._

_Amélie’s grinding eventually led to her own wetness dripping down Lena’s leg, the younger woman letting out a satisfied chuckle when she realized. Unconsciously, Lena’s hips wiggled in anticipation, her sex now completely flushed and wet and wanting some attention of its own. Amélie picked up on this and Lena watched, entranced, as the French woman took two of her slender fingers into her own mouth up to her knuckles, her soft and pillowy lips surrounding them perfectly, and then lazily drew them out, her eye contact with the younger woman unbreaking._

_Lena would not have noticed her eyes were shot wide open the entire display if not for the sudden dryness she felt creeping up in them, and she blinked, swallowing a gulp._

_Amélie chucked, and the saliva on her fingers mixing with the younger woman’s arousal, she teased Lena’s entrance, the tips of her fingers tracing up and down, as an overexcited Lena bucked her hips desperately against them. Easing herself into the younger woman, achingly slow at first, Amélie then began to pump her fingers in and out of Lena, eventually finding a tempo that made Lena gasp and throw her head back._

_It was bliss—the pilot swore that her legs went limp from the stimulation of Amélie finally spreading her from the inside, leaving her vulnerable and full. Lena moved her hands up to wrap around Amélie’s neck, trying to find something to anchor her, as her body bounced with each thrust. The two women sliding with sweat, Amélie continued to grind against Lena’s leg._

_With every breathtaking piston, Lena felt electricity radiate from her stomach to the rest of her body. A noise she didn’t know she could make escaped her mouth, only to be muted by Amélie’s lips, smiling at the scene of a very stimulated Lena below her, and giving her a who’s-in-control-now kiss. At the moment, Lena was at Amélie’s every whim… and she wouldn’t have minded if it stayed that way forever._

_Lena tried her best to regain some composure. Despite the overpowering pleasure, she wanted to be sure she didn’t miss the look on Amélie’s face when she came. The younger woman spent what little energy she could muster pulling back from Amélie’s warm lips to see what divine expression she could have on her face—but to her surprise, Amélie smirked devilishly, and stared straight into Lena’s eyes._

_“Had enough, chérie?”_

That was all it took.

Lena’s whole body shuddered as her hips shot up into the air, her insides tensing up around her own fingers with each violent wave of euphoria. “Mmmm…!” The rolls of moans she cried were fortunately suppressed by her pillow, and as she came she shut her eyes, clinging to the gorgeous fantasy she had weaved.

It was all too much—the thought of Amélie being hers (or more accurately her being Amélie’s), the thought of finally coming to some sort of release to the animalistic tension that the older woman had filled her days with, the way that even in her dreams Amélie had the ability to take over every one of Lena’s senses.

The young pilot’s vision faded in and out—she was alone, clutching her pillow, and at the same time there with her beautiful lover. Spent, she collapsed onto the bed in an exhausted heap.

-

Lena was no homewrecker. She told herself on strong resolve that she would not confess until the day she had a gun to her head.

She just didn’t think that day would come so soon.

The reality Lena knew now felt worlds apart from her Overwatch days. Now there was no Gerard, no Amélie—at least not the Amélie that Lena knew. The woman Lena knew had been replaced with this unfamiliar assassin, anesthetized to the human emotion she had known so much about before, reconditioned in some kind of Pavlovian wet dream. And yet, Lena still witnessed imperfections in this full metal jacket that the organization Talon claimed to have created for Amélie—now codenamed “Widowmaker.”

For one thing, Lena had seen a certain gleam in Widowmaker’s eyes before—the one she got when she made a successful kill. It was the same gleam that had shone those distant years ago, when Lena would share stories with her best friend on the Overwatch base, of becoming enamored with the skies—in the cliché romantic way, but also in the practical way of allowing Lena to understand the physics of flight and fulfill her sense of duty to protect others. And Amélie couldn’t help but smile at her lively chattering back then, her eyes glimmering happily.

Lena remembers one afternoon, summery and innocent and before she needed the garish blue glow of life support strapped to her chest at all times from a test flight accident, when the subject of childhood came up between her and Amélie.

_“I have a few manuscripts,” Amélie had admitted, and then stared off into the distance, “but I don’t think I’ll ever be the author I dreamed of being.”_

_“You can’t say that when you haven’t tried yet, love,” Lena argued. “I reckon Morrison knows someone. Why don’t we submit one of those to an editor when we get a little time?”_

_A genuine smile crept up on Amélie’s face, as she sighed and rested her chin on clasped hands, “I wish I had half the optimism you did, chérie.”_

_Lena blushed, her youthful tendencies slipping out again._

And with the cold steel of an assault rifle’s barrel perched between her eyes, optimism was something Lena was in desperate need of right now.

The recent assassination of Tekhartha Mondatta in front of Lena’s eyes solidified how the woman now standing above her was no longer the Amélie she knew. But the thought that Amélie was still in there somewhere let Lena maintain some of her idealism. Or maybe that thought was the only thing keeping Lena sane.

But now, here Widowmaker stood, imposingly above her captured prey—the former pilot kneeling on the ground, backed against the brick and graffiti of a London alley, pistols dropped on the ground ten feet away during an altercation she had just lost. This was not the evenings spent in the library all those years ago, and the buzzing neon sign of a nearby pub reverberated in Lena’s ears as she tried to understand the situation she was in.

How did it go so wrong so fast?

“If you continue to interfere, I will have no choice,” Widowmaker’s words dripped with venom as she jerked the gun forward menacingly, but the threat itself wasn’t what hurt Lena the most.

Lena’s voice came out softly, “Amélie…”

“Amélie is dead,” came the cold response, and Widowmaker opened her mouth again but was interrupted.

“She’s not.” The younger woman asserted, shaking her head. Her hardheadedness shining through her fear, she looked up to meet Widowmaker’s gaze, “She’s standing right in front of me.”

Widowmaker’s expression soured as she dug the muzzle of the rifle further into Lena’s skin, “ _Je vais vous rencontrer en enfer_.”

Trembling, from terror or heartache she wasn’t sure, and before she could allow herself to stop and think whether what she was about to say was wise with a gun pointed to her head, Lena found herself choking out between sobs, “I love you,” and staring up at Widowmaker for any sign of life through her tears, continued, “I love you, I love you, I always have.”

The captive woman’s whimpering was the only sound to fill the air for a few moments.

And then, to Lena’s astonishment, the tip of Widowmaker’s rifle fell from her brow onto the pavement below her, and she winced at the impact.

Widowmaker’s eyes widened unconsciously, as her chest rose and fell for several breaths. She stared at her gun, and then viciously at the woman kneeling below her, _“Imbécile_ …”

She continued, “Fighting for justice doesn’t get you respect. It gets you killed.”

The words hung in the air. Before Lena could respond, the image of Gerard’s face flashed through her mind, from the last time she saw it: in a frame surrounded by flowers, at the memorial dedicated to him at Overwatch’s small French operations base. _Overwatch Agent Murdered by Wife_ , the headlines said, revealing the gruesome irony of Widowmaker’s handle.

Lena fixated at this ruthless assassin’s rifle on the ground, with new understanding. There was more human left in Widowmaker than she wanted others to know, and Lena had just witnessed her accidentally share a shred of that remaining humanity: that her heart was broken.

The younger woman returned to the present from her thoughts and looked up at her captor, “Amé—”

Only to find that she was no longer there.


End file.
